


no sound but the wind

by naboojakku



Category: Twilight Series - All Media Types
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bella is 17, Bella’s POV, Biting, Butt Slapping, Charlie is late 30s, Christmas Eve, Complete, Creampie, Daddy Kink, Darkfic, Dominant Charlie Swan, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Father/Daughter Incest, Fondling, Forks Washington, Handcuffs, Human Bella Swan, Hurt/Comfort, Immobility, Implied Pregnancy, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Incest, Incest Kink, Internalized Misogyny, Licking, Menstruation, Misogyny, Multiple Orgasms, Neck Kissing, Nipple Licking, No Plot/Plotless, Non-Consensual Bondage, Non-Consensual Touching, Older Man/Younger Woman, POV Third Person, Parent/Child Incest, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Possessive Behavior, Praise Kink, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Sex, Sexual Fantasy, Size Difference, Size Kink, Spanking, Twilight References, Underage Drinking, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, age gap, all I see is that scene in new moon when bella's turning in that chair by the window, could be better but idc, dubcon, in an action movie, mention of dead bodies, mention of menstruation, minor Bella/Edward, no sound but the wind by editors, noncon, primal play, sing it lykke li!!, submissive Bella Swan, there's a possibilityyyyyyyyyyy, which is canon ig?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:06:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27895036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naboojakku/pseuds/naboojakku
Summary: Back in Forks after a six year reprieve, Bella struggles to redefine her relationship with her father. Meanwhile, Charlie starts to see his daughter in a new light.
Relationships: Bella Swan/Charlie Swan
Comments: 34
Kudos: 184





	1. help me to carry the fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **huh**

It starts with a simple request.

“Bells, can you grab me a spoon?” Through a mouthful of cinnamon bread, Charlie Swan grins and raises both eyebrows. He’s already dressed for the day—jeans and a red flannel. His five o’clock shadow has ticked over to a rough ten o’clock beard. 

Bella rolls her eyes good-naturedly and reopens the silverware drawer. It’s not a big deal, obviously. She hasn’t sat down to eat yet. But still—he’s a grown man. It wouldn’t hurt for him to get his own stuff every once in a while instead of asking her to do it for him. He has yet to prove he knows his way around a kitchen—save for the location of the microwave and, on rare occasions, the stove. It’s a wonder he managed to feed himself all these years without, as he has mentioned several times already, _“a female to guide me along.”_

“Sure, Ch—Dad,” she says, agreeable as always. It was never her intention to take on the mantle of perfect daughter, but now that both of her parents seem to hold her to this standard, there’s no escaping it. Saying no, when it comes to them, isn’t in her vocabulary. 

She hands over the spoon, sticking out her tongue playfully, and sits across from her father. Sometimes she forgets the parameters of their relationship—it’s been so long since she was last here in Forks that she’s just as likely to call him Charlie as she is Dad. This knowledge would likely upset him—using his first name creates distance, intentionally or not—but the distinction is necessary. 

_Dad_ is the past. _Dad_ is pre-adolescence when they played board games and went out for ice cream. _Charlie_ is the uncomfortable present—a strange man who only vaguely resembles her childhood hero. (This one's much too scruffy.) _Charlie_ doesn’t know the current Bella Swan, the one who listens to sappy indie music and pines after boys with ultra pale skin. 

When she glances up from the table, Charlie’s staring at her with an unwavering sort of intensity that raises goosebumps on her arms. 

“There’s something stuck to your jeans.”

Uh. Bella tilts her head, as if a better angle might make it easier to understand. This statement is so incongruous with everything going on in her head that it takes a full minute for the words to register. 

“Where?” she asks finally, blinking hard. She did a load of laundry just last night. The jeans can’t be stained already. 

“It’s—” Charlie waves a hand in her direction, exasperated, before jerking his head. “Come here.”

The note of command in his voice is unmistakable. Ever since she moved to Forks six weeks ago, she’s been privy to that voice more times than she can count. It’s a combination of Dad and Police Chief Swan. Infuriating but inevitable. 

With a quiet sigh, Bella rounds the table and stands in front of her father. She holds out her hands, palms up, as if to say, _Well, what’s the issue?_

Charlie stares at her thighs for so long that she glances down too, unnerved by his silent inspection. Did she suddenly get her period? Her flow is light; sometimes she doesn’t even notice until she goes to the bathroom. Is there blood seeping through the seat of her pants? 

But a glance is all it takes to determine there’s nothing out-of-sorts. No sign of her period, which is good news for a different reason—she finished just last week. 

Bewildered, she looks back at her father. “What are you—”

“Turn around,” he instructs, cutting her off without a thought. He plants a heavy hand on her hip and pushes insistently. “I noticed it while you were getting my spoon.”

 _It?_ Frowning, Bella allows herself to be swiveled around like a chair until she’s facing the kitchen sink. So it’s not period blood, but then what’s the problem? Maybe she sat in gum? Charlie’s been known to gobble a pack or two every week, which she has repeatedly informed him is downright terrible for his gums. . 

Her eyes stray to her own chair, but the angle is bad. She can’t make out if there’s anything sticky on the seat. Well, regardless, it’s a good thing Christmas is only a couple days away. If necessary, Charlie can buy her a gift card to Boscovs or some other department store for new jeans. These ones are old anyway.

He hums in the back of his throat, a thoughtful noise, and she hears his chair scrap back a few inches. She tosses a curious look over her shoulder. “Find it?”

Instead of answering, Charlie’s hands carefully clamp down on her hips and guide her back a step. A startled laugh bursts free, and when she steadies herself on the table, she catches a glimpse of his face. Charlie’s eyes are… Well, they _seem_ to be…

Bella laughs again, a nervous sound now. Why is Charlie staring at her _butt_? If there’s something there, why doesn’t he just wipe it off? And if he noticed gum or a stain while she was standing at the counter earlier, that must mean he was...well, _looking._ Why would he—

Charlie suddenly cups one cheek, his fingers fanning across her backside. A birdlike chirp releases from her mouth she’s so surprised. His hand is very warm, even through the denim, and very large. The pad of his thumb brushes her tailbone. 

“Um, Dad—”

“Hush now, Bella.” He smooths his palm over her backside, slow and deliberate. “I’m checking.”

 _Checking what?_ she wonders, uneasy. But she doesn’t move, and she doesn’t complain when he begins to knead her cheeks, digging his thick fingers into her ass. The massage—and that’s what it is, surely—is effective, even through the thick denim. Her body goes limp and warm, like he’s lit a fire deep inside her chest. She catches herself just before a moan slips free, then—incredibly—blushes. As if she’s... _okay_ with this. 

_What the hell?_

She's never been touched with any kind of romantic intimacy before, and the thought of _this_ —her dad's hands holding her hips and rubbing her ass and generally being creepy as hell—as her very first time experiencing intimacy in any capacity is revolting. 

After another excruciating minute, Charlie removes his hands, lightly tapping her butt as he goes, and returns to his breakfast. Honey Nut Cheerios with fat-free milk. She bought a gallon at the Quik Mart yesterday for a whole dollar cheaper than the kind she’d find in Arizona. 

_Who cares about milk?_ her mind demands, disgusted by this distraction. _Dad just..._ fondled _your ass!_

_Fondled._ God, she hates that word, especially in relation to her father. She swallows and fiddles nervously, smoothing down the hem of her shirt, tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear, adjusting the collar of her shirt. Is she allowed to go now? 

Charlie doesn’t acknowledge her, not at all, so she hesitantly retakes her seat. Her hands shake, and maybe it’s the thermostat, but she feels unbearably warm all of a sudden. Her cheeks are still flushed, and her chest is on fire. She's no longer pleasantly warm but burning up. 

“Gonna help Billy with some repairs today,” he says gruffly, interrupting the suffocating silence. Her breath releases in a sharp gasp. 

“I—um, alright.” She smiles awkwardly, eyes on the table. Her toast lies forgotten, cold and hard. “I’m going to finish unpacking.”

“If you need any help—”

“I know,” she says quickly, then winces. Too abrupt. 

Thankfully, Charlie’s oblivious. He grunts as he rises from his chair, hands braced on the wood table. Her throat goes dry at the sight of those hands—the many callouses, the thin white scars, the ridged veins. She remembers how they felt on her backside—warm and somehow _full._ Heavy, too, like he was pressing them firm against her. 

Behind her, Charlie dumps his bowl in the sink. The spoon clatters next, and he pauses to wet his hands. Not wash, of course—he detests fragranced soaps. Even ones that are apparently scentless bother him. She doesn’t have to be watching to know that he shakes his hands a few times to dry them instead of using a paper towel. _Caveman,_ Renee would mutter with a small, rueful smile.

He doesn’t clean the bowl or spoon. He doesn’t open the dishwasher. It’s an unspoken rule in their house— _his_ house. _The woman cooks and cleans. The man works and provides. End of story._ Bella’s not sure how this mindset came to be, but it’s times like these she really doesn’t blame her mother for abandoning him. 

Then Charlie’s behind her again. She stiffens, but he simply drops a kiss on the crown of her head. His breath puffs against her hair. 

“See you, Bells. Be good.”

“Bye, Dad,” she says weakly. 

Only when the front door closes behind him and the revving of his police cruiser fills the quiet morning does Bella rise on shaky legs and head for the sink.

🌕🌑🌕🌑🌕🌑🌕🌑

She’s sitting on the sofa with a bowl of buttered popcorn, watching a poorly executed action movie starring Bruce Willis, when the front door bangs open.

Bella startles, spilling kernels all over the carpet. Her thoughts swim towards the worst-case scenario: home invasion. There’s not a lot she can do, but she does know where they keep the knives. 

_“Bella!”_

She deflates into the sofa. It’s Charlie, of course. Crisis (and possible gruesome death) averted. Ever since this morning at breakfast she’s been extremely on edge. Which is ridiculous. Dad was just making sure she didn’t have anything gross or embarrassing stuck to her butt. Totally normal. Nothing weird about that. 

_“Bella?”_

“I’m right here, Dad!” she calls, a note of annoyance in her tone. Why is he yelling like that? The distance from front door to living room is a dozen feet at most. Besides, where else would she be on a Saturday night two days before Christmas? 

Belatedly, Bella realizes there’s popcorn scattered at the foot of the sofa. Crap! She hastily shoves the bowl aside, making sure it’s balanced on a cushion before dropping to her knees. 

Clumsy footsteps stumble down the hallway, and she pauses. It’s only seven. Charlie’s not... _drunk,_ is he? As far as she knows, he'll have a beer every now and again, especially during football season, but never enough to become a full-on drunk. He’s the police chief, for Christ’s sake! 

Kernels slip through her fingers, and she settles back on her knees with a frown as Charlie comes into view. He pauses on the threshold, blinking rapidly like there’s dirt in his eye. But his gaze finally focuses on her, and a chill worms its way down her spine. 

“Bella, Bella!” he sings in a croaky baritone, pointing a finger in her general direction. “There she is! There’s my bru—bew— _beautiful_ daughter!”

 _He_ is _drunk_ , she realizes, immediately aghast. Popcorn all but forgotten, she whispers, “Dad, you didn’t...drive _home_ like this, did you?” 

He hiccups a laugh and runs a hand over his taut stomach. “Bells, you worry too much.” Then he squints. “What’re you doing on the floor?”

Before she has time to respond, Charlie lurches forward, arms extended as if he’s fending off an attack. Or inviting one. He reaches for her hands—well, she assumes that’s what he’s after—and Bella reluctantly allows him to hold them. She winces at his too-tight grip.

“Dad—”

“Here we go,” he mutters, and with a grunt Dad yanks her straight to her feet. She’s surprised—despite his obvious inebriation, he’s still as strong as ever. This should reassure her but strangely does the opposite. “Up and at ‘em.”

“Please tell me you didn’t drive drunk.” Bella scowls and tugs on her hands, but he doesn’t release them. Instead, he swings them lightly back and forth. 

“I won’t tell you then,” he says, grinning sloppily. His jubilation fades when his eyes snag on the TV. “Whatcha watching?”

Fine. He obviously doesn't want an interrogation, so she relents. He’s too drunk to remember anything important, anyway. She’ll let him have it in the morning when he’s nice and sober and in his right mind. 

Still. “Did Billy do this?”

Charlie never used to drink when she was young, but it's been quite a long time. Maybe things have changed. Maybe he imbibes more than she or Renee knows. 

He swats a hand through the air. “Ha! Billy, shmilly. I wash—was in the mood.”

 _To get shitfaced?_ she thinks worriedly. But again, she doesn’t attack or nag him about it like Renee would. Instead, she guides him to the sofa, and he sinks gratefully into one corner with a deep sigh. Stale beer breath wafts over her, and she wrinkles her nose as she sits next to him. 

“Hey.” Charlie grins and bops her nose. “T’asso _cute._ ” 

She’s perched on the edge of the sofa, wondering if she should fetch a puke bucket, but at this familiar gesture, she shuffles back and crosses her legs. A sense of calm descends over her, and she shakes her head. She can count on one hand the number of times she’s seen her dad crazy drunk. His work _is_ stressful, though, even in a small town like Forks, so she shouldn’t judge him for letting loose for a night. 

The house is toasty warm, and she pulls the sleeves of her big sweater past her wrists, getting comfortable. It’s the perfect time of year for snow and hot chocolate and cozy movies. A quick glance at the TV screen and the half a dozen bloodied, burning bodies as a building explodes tells her that maybe an action movie isn’t exactly _festive,_ but at least it’s entertaining. Besides, Bruce Willis is still insanely attractive for a man in his late fifties. 

Charlie mutters under his breath, and she turns her attention back to him. His eyes are heavy-lidded with fatigue. It must’ve been a busy day at the Black’s. He’s totally worn out. 

Bella smiles. She and her father are a lot alike. Both quiet, shy, introverted. Both prefer to be alone than in a crowd. She loves to read, and he enjoys watching sports alone in the living room. Aside from Billy Black and a few other townspeople, Charlie is by himself most of the year. It’s probably a good thing she moved here when she did. Prolonged isolation can really get to a person, even one as easygoing and solitary as her father.

She gently pushes his shoulder. “Dad.” 

He snorts and smacks his lips.

“Dad. You should go to bed.”

He blindly swats her hand away. “Not yet.”

Bella suppresses a giggle. “You’re already half asleep! Come on, go upstairs.” 

“No,” he grumbles stubbornly, and now she does laugh. Like a little kid on the verge of a sleep-deprived tantrum, he nuzzles into the side of the sofa, a slight scowl marring his face. 

" _Please,_ Dad?"

Charlie cracks an eye. They’re oddly dark in the yellow light of the table lamp. He seems to mull over some sort of decision. Maybe he's going to listen to her for once. Encouraged, she reaches forward again to poke his arm, and with a sly quickness, Dad snatches her hand out of the air and pulls her against him. 

She lets out a yelp, and her hands shoot out for balance. They meet the solid wall of his chest, and Charlie’s arm slides around and under her. With considerable ease, he cups her bottom and holds her tightly to his side, cradling her like a small child. She experiences a momentary flash of fear, but it fades when Dad kisses her forehead, mumbling about safety and bedtimes.

“You should really get some sleep,” she tries again. But when she shifts, intending to rise off the sofa, his arms tighten. It's a motion that say, _Absolutely not. You'll stay right where I want you._

For what might very well be the first time, Bella realizes that Charlie is a big man. He’s well over six feet and full of muscle. No beer belly for this cop. He’s tough by nature and not easily intimidated—that’s pretty much a job requirement. Not that Forks is necessarily a _dangerous_ place.

At least, it didn’t used to be.

Charlie kisses her forehead again. “Missed you. Missed you s'much.”

Her throat tightens. “I know, Dad. I missed you too.”

All those missing years, and now look at them. Two veritable strangers forced to share a tiny home. Clearly, they don't know how to act around one another. 

He grumbles to himself, and she catches the words _unfair_ and _mine too._ When he rolls to his side, she abruptly finds herself sunk into the saggy sofa cushion, Charlie herding her into a corner. He slumps a little, leaning some of his prodigious weight on her body. Not enough to crush or suffocate, but definitely more than needed to keep her pinned in place. 

He nuzzles her temple, lips hot and dry. “Tol' Renee, “She’s my daughter too. Can’t just...can’t just take 'er away from me.’”

Bella’s heart turns over in her chest. Even though she had nothing to do with their separation, she can’t suppress the flare of guilt. She and Renee always had each other in good times and bad while her father was up here in this house, all alone, for years and years. She can't even imagine that sort of loneliness. It’s really a wonder he never remarried. 

“Wish I didn’t love you s'much,” Charlie continues, oblivious to the tears smarting in her eyes. “Would make the pain easier to bear if I didn’t.”

Bella swallows the lump in her throat and pats his chest reassuringly. “Well, I’m here now. Why don’t we get you upstairs so you can settle down in bed?”

“Not _yet_ ,” he insists, dipping low until his mouth skims her throat. He makes a strange sound deep in his chest—what might amount to a purr, if he were an animal, which is a scary comparison—and clumsily presses his lips to her skin. 

A gasp rises from her mouth, and she instinctively grips both sides of his head. Charlie seems to consider this an invitation and kisses the tender skin at the hollow of her throat. She lets loose a small, distressed whine and tries to turn away, but he's not having it. Her mind short circuits. Her father’s lips are on her skin! He’s _kissing_ her _neck_! Nausea does a slow roll in the depths of her stomach. 

His tongue drags along the curve of her neck, so slick and rough that she desperately arches away from him. The feel of it is incredibly intimate. _Stop it!_ she demands, but only in her head. Her voice has frozen solid in her chest like a block of ice. _Stop doing that, STOP!_

Charlie works his way up her throat, mumbling incoherently. His teeth nip at her jaw, bruising the skin, scraping and sucking and tearing at her until she’s frayed into little tiny pieces. A small part of her demands that she just give in. Let it happen. If she closes her eyes and visualizes a different face—a pale face with dark hair and ever-changing amber eyes, perhaps—she can imagine this is actually kind of pleasurable.

“My li'l treasure,” he slurs, hugging her snuggly around the waist. “My Bella. Isabella.”

Charlie repeats her name as he moves over her face, lips and tongue tasting every inch of her skin. She moves frantically under him, struggling, but between the back of the sofa and his body she’s squarely trapped. Both are immovable. She tilts up her chin so Charlie won’t lick across her mouth, and—not one to be deterred—he instead dives low, sucking on her neck like a man deprived too long of water. He makes greedy little moans as he laves at her skin, and several tears drip from her lashes. 

_Why is he doing this?_ she cries silently, even as a small voice reassures her, _He’s drunk, Bella. Clearly he’s not in his right mind._

She pushes on his chest, but Charlie harrumphs and bites down on the curve of her shoulder, harder and harder until she goes limp. The pain is _exquisite_. Too sharp, too real, like she’s experiencing it ten times over. Her mouth falls open, and she’s gasping uncontrollably—it’s only a matter of time until it switches over to hyperventilation. 

_Please don’t,_ she thinks again and again. _Please don’t, please don’t, please don’t._

But Charlie can’t hear her thoughts, and even if he could she doubts he’d care. There’s something desperate in the way he clutches her, like he’s holding himself back even now. It’s a terrifying thought. Surely this is just a drunken miscalculation. There’s nothing intentional happening here. 

Charlie is her _dad,_ for Christ’s sake. 

He pushes his face into her neck, sighing nonsense and sucking her skin into his mouth hard enough to leave bruises. Since resistence is useless, Bella’s attention wanders over his head and across the room to the Christmas tree. It’s real pine and decorated with silver and gold garlands. There are only a few sporadic ornaments hung on the branches—Charlie doesn’t believe in collecting such a _feminine_ valuable. 

_Tomorrow’s Christmas Eve,_ she tells herself blankly. _I still have to wrap Dad’s gifts._

One big, meaty paw clamps down on her upper thigh. His thumb brushes between her legs, an absent movement, and she instinctively pushes her thighs together. A bead of sweat rolls down her neck. 

Charlie squeezes her thigh and mumbles, “Open up, Bella. Come on now, open up for me.”

Bella moans quietly with fear. He doesn’t mean that. Of course not. He’s just drunk, that’s all. Too much beer. Damn Billy Black for encouraging him. Charlie never used to drink like this when she visited. _Never._

Her voice is still trapped in her throat, vocal cords caught in a messy tangle. She tries to swallow, alleviate some of the tension building in her neck, but even that small motion is beyond her. Charlie is glued to her body, pressed so close she can scarcely breathe without inhaling his smell—cheap beer, a faint whiff of cologne, and what might be the faded tang of cigar smoke. 

“ _Dad,_ ” she manages between gasps, “I’m t-tired! Let me go to bed, p-please!”

All at once, like a tire jabbed by a sharp nail, Charlie slumps, his mouth disappearing from her neck. He doesn’t attempt to catch himself, and Bella releases a short cry as his heavy body crushes her into the sofa cushions. 

“I’m sorry,” he says finally, speaking into her shirt. His mouth is pressed to her collarbone. “You’re all I have.”

She forces herself to speak softly and without anger. Charlie still has her pinned. If he wanted to continue his assault, there's simply no way she could stop him. “That’s fine, Dad. But I—I don’t—” _I don’t want this!_ But the words won’t come. She doesn’t want to hurt his feelings. Not like this, when he’s already so... _sad._

There it is again. Perfect daughter syndrome. 

With a groan, Charlie staggers to his feet. He looms over her, swaying drunkenly. She scrunches into the couch, terrified he’ll fall and hurt himself or fall and crush her a second time. 

He takes in her wide eyes and trembling lower lip and sighs, running a hand down his face. Exhaustion seeps from him like steam. 

“Get some sleep, Bells.” He offers her a tight smile and stumbles away, heading for the stairs. His footsteps falter as he collides with a piece of furniture—maybe the kitchen table—and curses low and vicious. 

Bella doesn’t move until the floorboards in his bedroom creak. 

For the first time since moving back to Forks, she locks her door before climbing into bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **to this day I maintain that the new moon soundtrack is an absolute fuckin banger**


	2. we will keep it alight together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **thanks I hate it**

In the morning, Bella’s first thought is for the Christmas tree. 

She surges upright in bed, eyes wide and panicked. Did she remember to switch off the colored lights? Even though there’s little danger, the lights are still a safety hazard, and the last thing she wants is for the house to burn down because of her carelessness. Seventeen years with Renee has taught her that if she doesn't double and triple check something, no one will. 

But then she remembers and sags back to the mattress—she never turned the lights on to begin with. Of _course._ They tend to reflect off the television screen no matter where in the room they've positioned the tree, and the lights create a glare that makes it hard to watch holiday cartoons or, in last night's case, Bruce Willis and his twenty-something love interest as they recklessly blow up high-rises. 

Relieved now, Bella stretches, back arching off the mattress. Several muscles in her arms crack, and she sighs happily. Muted sunlight filters through the flimsy curtains over her window, and the house smells faintly of pine and last night’s lasagna. These are homey smells, especially the pine. She's been in Forks six weeks, but the smell of pine immediately reminds her of snuggling on the living room couch and doing homework at the kitchen table. 

She smiles to herself. It’s Christmas Eve. One of the best days of the year. Maybe she and Charlie will—

Her thoughts stall. _Charlie._

With a choked gasp, she sits up again. Her eyes go right to the door. Still closed. 

What _happened_ last night? Was it all a dream? She clutches the covers to her chest. It doesn't feel like a dream. But maybe she misunderstood. They've never been a particularly affectionate family, and as far as she knows, Charlie's lived alone since Renee left him high and dry. The two of them are clumsy when it comes to feelings. So yeah, the neck kissing was weird, but he probably meant it to be familial—loving but not _intimate._

Bella supresses a mirthless laugh. How fucked is that? To think her dad has... _designs_ on her. He would be absolutely disgusted if he knew what she's imagining now. It’s her own fault for thinking they might mean something else—

“Morning.”

She screams.

Her father’s sitting in her rocking chair across the room, fully dressed. Another pair of dark jeans, another heavy flannel. Thick cotton socks on his feet. He’s reclined in the chair, wrists hanging loosely off the wooden arms. 

Her pulse maintains a staccato rhythm for several seconds. So long she's afraid it might be stuck like that. Charlie smiles sleepily, and she wonders just how long he’s been sitting there. He looks comfortable. The door—

She locked the door. 

“How—” Her voice is low and croaky, so she starts over. “How did you get in here?”

He shrugs and absently toes a run in the carpet. “I’ve lived in this house most of my life, Bells. Wasn’t hard.” 

“What— Why do you—” But that’s not right. What she really wants to ask is _why are you here?_ In fact, she opens her mouth, intent on demanding an answer. _Why are you here in my bedroom first thing in the morning? Don't you have stuff to do?_

Something stops her though. It’s the expression on Charlie’s face. He blinks slowly, still smiling, like it’s perfectly natural for him to have broken into his daughter’s room to watch her sleep. There’s something incredibly sinister about him being there while she’s so vulnerable. Unaware. 

“Have you been awake long?” she asks with forced joviality. For whatever reason, she doesn’t want him to see how upset she is by his intrusion. The last thing she wants to do is drive him away. 

“An hour or so,” he admits, tapping his fingers against his lips. The chair creaks faintly as he rocks, and shadows obscure the fine details of his face.

Bella peers at her bedside clock. Quarter after six. Far too early for anyone to be awake, especially on Christmas Eve. The only reason she should be up at this time is to bake cinnamon rolls or cook breakfast. Omelets and turkey sausage or something. Or a ham for dinner. They'll sometimes take hours to cook, depending on the method and ingredients. 

She’s not feeling particularly hungry at the moment. 

“Well,” she says eventually, when it’s clear he’s not going to speak, “Merry Christmas Eve.”

Charlie’s face brightens, casting aside those ominous shadows. “Check outside.”

Check—? Suspicious now, Bella clambers off the bed and tip-toes to the window. She glances over her shoulder to see Charlie unmoved, still smiling. She shudders, cautiously pries back the curtain—and gasps.

“It’s _snowing!_ ” she exclaims, totally blindsided by the pristine white landscape outside. 

In Arizona, she was lucky if the temperature ever dipped below fifty. Even in the winter, it’s always abnormally warm there. Sure, the constant rain in Forks sucks, but it's different with snow. She doesn’t mind it so much. There’s something magical about a snowstorm at Christmastime. As long as she doesn’t have to drive around in it.

Charlie joins her at the window, brushing aside the curtain. “It started around four. Supposed to be a big one.”

She grins. “Enough to build a snowman, you think?”

“Oh, more than enough for that.” He adds casually, “We’ll probably be stuck inside for a few days.”

She frowns and peeks at his face. That’s not a big deal for her—school's out until the new year—but the police chief rarely gets time off. What if there’s an emergency in town? Drama of any kind is rare in Forks—she’s learned that much in her six weeks—but still. Anything can happen. Even with snow chains on his cruiser, he’ll be putting his life at risk. 

But Charlie’s unbothered. He taps the window glass. “Your very first white Christmas.”

She laughs, overjoyed with this early morning surpise, and nudges his shoulder. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

Charlie wraps an arm around her waist and draws her in for a hug. She inhales the clean laundry scent of his flannel. It comes as a mild surprise that there’s no sign of coffee anywhere in the room. He normally can’t function unless he’s downed a cup or two. Did he wake up and head straight for her room? 

Bella shudders, unnerved by this thought. 

“Cold?” Charlie rubs her bare arms. She’s wearing soft cotton PJs, but the material is thin and worn after so many years of use. Add new pajamas to her Christmas list, preferably ones with long sleeves. 

“A little,” she admits, rubbing her neck. “You know, I think I’ll go back to bed.”

He grunts, sounding displeased. “Why don’t you join me downstairs?”

“Dad, I’m not really awake yet—”

“Even better,” he says suddenly, stepping towards the bed. “I’ll stay here with you. Just until you fall asleep.”

A tremor of unease rolls down her spine. She’s a heavy sleeper, but it always takes a while for her to settle down. What if he refuses to leave, but _she_ refuses to sleep? Will he be angry? Will he think she's doing it on purpose? 

Once again, she’s struck by the strangeness between them. She stopped visiting Forks when she turned eleven because it became obvious to everyone—even her normally oblivious father—that she hated the town. Small and confining and cold. Charlie went down to Phoenix once or twice, but the experiences weren’t pleasant ones. For the last five years, the only evidence of her father was a cheap birthday card stashed with a twenty or the occasional fifty. 

They don’t know each other anymore. The realization penetrates deep, slicing through her uncertainty. Charlie is an only child himself, and he never had any other kids. His parents died when she was still a baby, and his only friends are two Quileute elders. Social interaction is weird for him. That probably explains why he touched her the way he did. He doesn’t know how to handle grown Bella except to treat her as he would young Bella—kisses and snuggles and general overprotectiveness.

That’s all it is. 

Now that she’s rationalized things, Bella smiles widely at Charlie and slides back under the covers, snuggling deep into her pile of pillows. “That’s okay, Dad. Really. Give me an hour or two and I’ll be down to cook breakfast.”

He shakes his head and motions for her to move over. “I don’t mind, Bells. Scootch.”

 _But I do._ Once again the words get stuck in her throat. For Pete's sake, this is her _dad._ She knows now that she’s the only one making things weird. Before she and Renee decided to temporarily halt her visits to Forks, Charlie would tuck her in at night and sometimes—not always, not even every week, but sometimes—read her a bedtime story. Something fun and magical and ostensibly Disney. 

Against her better judgement, she shifts to the opposite side of the bed and flips up the covers. “Well, if you insist.”

Charlie offers her a grin, obviously surprised, and climbs onto the mattress, which dips and sways under the added weight. She stifles a laugh as he gets settled, bunching the blankets in his lap. It’s a tight fit, but she has enough room to lay down flat and nuzzle her head on a pillow. 

“Sleep tight,” he mumbles, stroking a loose piece of hair off her cheek.

“I’ll try,” she sighs, even as her eyelids droop. Maybe slipping back under won’t be as hard as she thought. 

Charlie hums a familiar Christmas tune under his breath, and before long, she sinks deep into a quiet warmth. 

At first, her sleep is dreamless. Free of nightmarish shadows and that dread that’s so particular to the dead of night: that unsettling, heavy horror. For years, Bella’s grappled with these terrors. They often come and go, but not with any regularity. Neither does she normally have pleasant dreams. 

But tonight, something changes. 

She’s standing outside Forks High School. It’s one of the town's rare sunny days, and sunlight bounces off the rows of neatly parked cars in the small school lot. Students just released from class swarm the sidewalks in short-sleeved shirts, laughing and calling out for friends. There's excitement in the air. 

Bella adjusts the straps of her backpack and begins to turn. Her car is on the opposite side of the lot. But something collides with her from behind, and she stumbles into the wall of the nearest building. Her hands come up instinctively to prevent an impact, but the tip of her nose still scratches the cement. Her face flushes red with a prickling pain. 

“Bella.” The voice is deep and velvety smooth—confident. A familiar voice, though one seldom used in her presence. Still, she would know it anywhere. 

Edward Cullen presses her up against the wall, his breath hot and immediate on her neck. “I’ve been looking for you.”

She swallows hard and stares unseeing at the cement. They’re out of sight of the parking lot, where students are wasting no time peeling out, eager to make use of the sunshine. Nobody knows where she is—nobody can see them. 

“H-Hi, Edward,” she manages, holding herself stiffly. What's this all about? 

His big hands slide over her hips and meet around her waist. He squeezes experimentally. “You’re so soft.”

“I’m—I—” She’s nervous but somehow not scared. In fact, an excited little thrill shoots through her, coils in her stomach. She's often fantasized what it might be like to touch him. 

Edward presses himself into her from behind, his crotch bumping against her ass. She breathes out shakily but doesn’t move when his hands draw low, lower, and unbutton her jeans. He moves slowly—not careful, just unconcerned. Like this is inevitable. His lips brush the back of her neck. 

“I’ve waited—so long—” He groans into her shoulder as his hand dips under the waistband of her jeans, into her panties. Her thighs tremble, but she keeps her legs where they are and makes no attempt to ward him off. He trails a blunt finger over her wet folds, and she releases a pent-up whine. 

Edward shushes her and rubs her clit with an experimental stroke of his thumb. Her knees go weak, and she has to press her hands firmly into the wall to keep herself standing. 

“Wet,” he mumbles, nipping at her earlobe. “Your pussy’s dripping, Bella.”

She squeaks a half-hearted protest as he slicks his fingers up and down, pushing harder, deeper, until she clenches desperately and begs him to _touch her._ No more teasing. 

Edward acquiesces. His fingers slip inside with ease, helped along by the puddle of arousal between her legs, and he adjusts her hips to a position more to his liking before he begins to pump.

“ _Oh—!_ ” Bella cries out and pushes her hips back. Edward’s moving behind her, thrusting and grinding on her ass, making guttural noises in the back of his throat like a wild animal, unhinged and a little rough. 

“More,” she murmurs, her face pushed into the wall, gritty cement digging into her cheek. “More, I need more—“

He kisses the back of her neck, huffing excitedly, his fingers squelching now as her arousal leaks in small squirts from her pussy. She’s already close—she’s still a virgin, but her fingers have always done good work—and she moans her excitement. 

Edward lets out a gasping _huh!_ as he thrusts into her from behind, jolting her up against the wall. Her thighs shake, and she grinds on him too, meeting him thrust for thrust. _A little more, just a little closer…_ A wail starts to build in the back of her throat, and just as her vision flashes an ecstatic red and white—

She jerks and wakes up in her own bed. Her throat is sore—she usually keeps a glass of water by her bedside for this very reason—but when she turns her head, a calloused hand cups her cheek and guides it until she’s facing forward again.

“What— _Dad_ —?” 

“Hush, Bella, settle down a minute.” He kisses the side of her head with a tenderness that borders on intimate. 

She blinks away the last remnants of sleep, still disoriented. Her thoughts are fuzzy, but she does remember Charlie promising to stay by her side until she fell back asleep. But he’s behind her now—somehow he maneuvered them so that she’s laying between his legs, her head on his chest, the covers pooled at her waist. She’s a heavy sleeper, but surely she would’ve felt the entire bed shaking as he moved around her, right? 

Then she becomes aware of a familiar wetness between her legs. 

Bella gasps and attempts to sit up, but Charlie’s thighs clench around her, and his arm locks around her shoulders. She makes a sound of protest, bewildered, and his other hand begins to move between her legs again, frantic and too rough. 

She yelps and twists, her legs opening wider, and Charlie grunts and bites her neck. He’s not delicate about it; his teeth sink so deep into her skin that tears immediately smart in her eyes, and her spine arcs against the pain. At the same time, her hips are moving, because even as some part of her knows how wrong it is—even as that same part wants to vomit until there’s nothing left—the pleasure is too immediate. 

Bella writhes, fighting against the looming tide, her fingers and nails scrabbling at the forearm locked across her chest. She tries to close her thighs, force him to release his hold, but that only creates a mind-blowing friction that makes her eyes roll. 

“ _D-Dad_ ,” she sobs, tossing her head side to side. “P-please _stop_ —”

But he doesn’t. His breathing grows increasingly shallow, and his own hips bump her ass like he’s desperately trying to find a way inside. His big hand cups her pussy, two fingers plunging deep, and it’s all she can do to keep from screaming. There’s nowhere to go, nothing to make him stop. 

“C’mon, Bells,” Charlie growls, kissing her throat, his free hand dipping below the neckline of her pajama top to knead her breasts. “Almost there, baby.”

She sits there, terror-stricken, as he brings her to climax. With a tortured scream, she cums in a fast gush all over his hand. He keeps pumping, groaning at the sloppy wet sound his fingers make, and minutes pass, and her panties and thighs are drenched, and in no time at all she’s cuming a second time, helplessly, explosively, her mouth open in a soundless shriek. 

“Christ.” Charlie expels a heavy breath, and when she slumps down, exhausted and horrified, he uses her weight to get himself off. He dry-humps her, knees bent to either side, hips pistoning forward and up. His cock digs into her lower back, and when he cums, the bed shakes. 

He slides out from behind her, still panting, and clumsily kisses her on the mouth, his lips rough and wet. “Good job, Bells. That was...uh, really great.”

 _He’s never been one for words,_ she thinks hazily. 

Charlie clears his throat and stands, surreptitiously adjusting his crotch, which is still somewhat tented. The sight strikes her with sudden, overwhelming fear. Isn’t he done? Didn’t he get what he wanted? Will he try again? But calm washes over her in the next second because even if that's what he intended, it's not like she has a choice in the matter.

She stares limply up at him. Her body feels tight and heavy. It’s like she’s lost all control over herself. Her father gazes down at her for a long moment, apparently lost in thought. Cum trickles down her thighs, and his eyes stay rooted between her legs for several minutes. With an odd, secretive smile, he leans forward and tugs down the neckline of her top. He licks one nipple with a broad sweep of his tongue and then, after another contemplative pause, licks the other. 

“Need to stop,” he mutters, as if to himself. But he licks them both a second time before leaning back, swiping a hand across his forehead. 

There's nothing to be done about it, is there? If he decides to mount her right here and now, there is not a single thing she can do to stop him. He has all the power. So she stares at him blankly, wondering what’s next.

Charlie rubs his scruff and sighs. “Well, Bells. You might want to get yourself cleaned up.” He gestures vaguely at her legs. “Don’t want to leave it messy for too long.” Then, in a darker voice, “I might get some…ideas.” 

Bella swallows and sits up, her hand on her stomach. She feels weird. Kind of sore and...lost. Not confused, exactly, just vacant. 

Charlie seems pleased. “Go get a shower, get dressed, then come on downstairs. I’ll make lunch.”

He tries to kiss her before leaving the room, but she turns her head away with the last of her energy. His lips find her cheek instead, but he rolls with it, guiding them down her neck. His mouth slides wetly across her skin, sucking and licking, before abruptly parting. Charlie gently rubs her nipple between his thumb and forefinger, muttering under his breath. 

This goes on for several minutes, and Bella fades away until she's barely conscious. It's easier to just let it happen. If she gives him what he wants, it'll be over quickly, and he'll leave. She gazes at the ceiling, and at some point his touch disappears. When she peeks over the side of the bed a few minutes, hours, days later, trembling, he’s nowhere in sight. 

Strange. She didn’t hear him go.

🌕🌑🌕🌑🌕🌑🌕🌑

In the shower, she makes a decision. It’s an impulsive one, and not without major room for error, but Bella doesn’t care.

With the mirror glass still fogged with steam, she slips into a fresh pair of jeans and a holiday sweater—red and white stripes with dancing reindeer on the front. It’s Christmas Eve, after all. Despite everything—and she doesn’t allow herself to analyze what _everything_ means—it’s still the day before her favorite holiday. That has to mean something. She’ll cling to that hopeful promise of tomorrow—to gifts and eggnog and silly holiday movies—as long as she can. 

As Bella expertly navigates the stairs—avoiding all the creaky spots—she regrets now more than ever refusing a cell phone. Her resistance to owning a device that can connect you to anyone, anywhere, at any time has only ever seemed beneficial. It's never been a problem before. It's never been a problem before. No phone means that her only means of communication is face-to-face. 

Charlie’s in the kitchen. He’s humming another Christmas tune, and the cabinets rattle, the fridge door opens and closes as he gathers ingredients for lunch. Her stomach roils at the thought of turkey and cheese sandwiches, or leftover lasagna, or buttered rolls, and she briefly fears her body will revolt and give her away. She presses the back of her hand to her mouth and steps cautiously to the front of the house. 

The big screen in the living room is playing _How The Grinch Stole Christmas._ Something about that unsettles her deeply. _He’s acting like this is all normal,_ she realizes, gently pulling her coat from the rack by the door. _Like nothing fucking bizarre is going on here._ She can’t fathom it. In fact, if she keeps mulling over what this means, she might lose her mind.

So she decides not to think, only to act. She yanks open the door, wincing when the wood creaks, and steps outside into the brisk winter air. There’s a thin layer of frost on the sidewalk and several inches on the ground. Snow is still falling--with flurries, not a blizzard--and the sky’s a smooth sheet of unrelenting gray. 

Bella sucks in air through her nose and pushes forward. Her eyes are on her truck, and she's considering all the possible avenues she'll take to get out of town, but a realization hits her in the chest with such force it's almost tangible. Horrorstruck, she slows to a stop on the front lawn. Snow eddies around her, and a light breeze ruffles the ends of her hair, but otherwise nothing moves. 

_I can’t use the truck. The damn thing's too loud. Charlie will be out the door before I even clear the driveway._

No, no, no.

Her throat tightens, but she can’t cry. No, she _refuses._ Her most promising means of escape—ruined. All because she agreed to drive a truck that sounds like a jet-engine on the brink of explosion. 

Fine. Okay. Bella zips up her coat and starts for the road. She’ll just walk until she comes across someone. Maybe a car will drive by. Doubtful, and not just because of the weather—this road is lucky to see five cars on a normal day, and this day isn’t normal. Nobody wants to venture out on Christmas Eve. It’s all about staying indoors and spending time with family.

Which is the very last thing she wants.

Still, despite the overwhelming odds, she's not deterred. The closest neighbor is at least two miles down the road, but she used to walk that daily in Phoenix. Her high school campus was _massive._ The roads here are slippery, but not too bad. No ice yet. Too soon for that. Maybe she can—

“Bella.” 

She goes still at the end of the driveway, and her shoulders hunch as if anticipating a blow. _Oh no, oh no, oh no._ The words run on a loop inside her head. Fear threatens to bring her screaming to her knees. 

_I can’t go back,_ she thinks desperately, curling her hands into fists. _Please, I can’t._

But she knows that it’s over. She's never been particularly devious when it comes to subterfuge, escape, sneaking around--whatever you want to call it. Her mind doesn't think that way. She's good and caught. 

But maybe there’s a way to salvage this. She just has to be convincing.

Swiveling on her heels, Bella drags a smile to her face and waves. “Hey, Dad.”

Her voice falters when she sees him, but she might be far enough away he doesn’t notice. Charlie is standing on the front porch, hip cocked, sleeves rolled to his elbows, a big old rifle hanging loosely at his side. Her heart jams its way into her throat. 

_Jesus Christ, is he really going to use that?_

“What’cha doing, Bella?” he calls, casually resting the rifle barrel on his shoulder.

She swallows. “I was just—um—I was getting some fresh air. To clear my head.” 

“Is that right.” Charlie saunters forward, his steps precise, big boots crushing the fine powdery snow. 

“Yeah,” she says brightly, forcing herself not to take a step back. His approach is tauntingly slow, and she can’t help but feel like a deer in headlights. Like prey. 

Charlie stops, much too close. He's well over six feet and looms over her, intimidatingly broad and strong. His chest blocks out the length of the house, and with nothing else to distract her, she finds her eyes drawn again and again to the rifle. It’s clean and smells like oil. 

“Are you sure, Bells?”

She nods quickly, head bobbing like a puppet on strings. Her hands are ice cold. “Y-Yeah. Just wanted to feel the snow. It’s pretty.”

He grunts and eyes her up and down. The rifle _tap-tap-taps_ on his shoulder, and she suppresses a wince. It makes a solid thump each time it hits him. Charlie’s eyes rove around the lawn, down the street, and finally to her truck. Searching. She’s not sure for what. There’s no one coming. 

“Pretty,” he says quietly, squinting up at the falling flakes. 

“Yeah,” she whispers, terrified.

He gently picks a snowflake from her hair, and they both watch it melt on the tip of his finger. Then he casually cups the back of her head, guides her chin up, and kisses her on the mouth with such force she nearly stumbles. His tongue pokes past her lips and scours her mouth, flicking across her teeth and gums. It’s invasive and disgusting, and she checks her gag reflex just in time.

Charlie breaks the kiss and runs his lips across her forehead, back and forth. “Don’t want ya wandering off, Bella. I’ll take good care of you here.”

She nods mutely and allows him to shepherd her back to the house. On the front stoop, she glances over her shoulder to find him inches away, smiling. The gun’s still perched casually on his shoulder, like he’s just waiting for a reason to use it.

“Inside,” he prompts, affectionately patting her butt. 

“...Okay, Dad.” 

Bella crosses the threshold and doesn’t look back again.


	3. this road won't go on forever

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **depravity**

Bella slowly drapes her snow-dusted coat over the back of a chair and sits. She puts her hands in her lap and stares at the textured wood grain.

Whistling, Charlie sets a plate before her on the kitchen table. It’s a ceramic plate, chipped on one side. All of his dining and silverware is dull and cracked. Decades overused. A man like him sees no sense in spending money on new kitchenware when the old ones work just fine. Besides, shopping for household items is a woman's job. 

The sandwich is clumsily made. It's obvious Charlie doesn't cook for himself very often. Ham and cheese on rye. A small bowl of tomato soup. A single dill pickle, fresh from the jar. And a glass of ice water.

Bella twists her fingers nervously. She’s not hungry. She’s not thirsty. If she takes even a single bite of this food, there’s a high chance it will come right back up. Charlie will probably think she’s done it on purpose. Her eyes stray surreptitiously towards the front door where the rifle is propped. 

Her father sits down with a relieved grunt. “Eat up, Bells.” He slaps the table with a meaty palm, and she jumps. “Need your strength for later.” 

_What are we doing later?_ The question is on the tip of her tongue. But to answer him is to feed into it, and that’s not what she wants to do. Maybe he means shoveling snow. The wind outside whistles past the kitchen windows, and the TV blares a daunting weather update—ten inches and counting. 

_Your very first white Christmas._

She hesitantly picks up her fork and stabs the pickle. It doesn’t smell appetizing, but in the course of a day her father’s become an unpredictable variable. Wielding a rifle. Sticking his fingers where they don't belong. Bella doesn't know this man. He might be capable of so much more—so much worse. So she nibbles at one end of the pickle, expression carefully blank. Juice spills down her chill, and Charlie offers her a napkin. 

“Good?”

She nods and concentrates on staring holes in her sandwich. Maybe she can make it disappear through sheer force of will. Worth a try. 

“I was thinking,” he says conversationally. “It’s a good thing I caught you when I did.”

Her face goes pale. _He knows I was trying to escape,_ she thinks despairingly. _Of course he does—Charlie's sometimes oblivious, but he's not dumb._

“Oh?”

He hums affirmatively. “Yeah. Thing is, I can’t let you go, Bells. I won’t. You understand.”

“Why not?” she whispers, shrinking into her seat. 

Charlie smiles grimly and shakes his head. “Won’t let you leave me, Bella. Not like your mother.”

He pushes back from the table, and she flinches violently, anticipating another unwelcome touch. But he simply crosses the kitchen to the fridge and extracts a bottle of red wine. Then two glasses from a cabinet. A bottle opener from a drawer. 

In a well-practiced motion, he pours them both a glass and gestures for her to take one. Bella’s not sure what to think. She rarely drinks alcohol. It’s not like she’s legal, and the few occasions she’s sipped at her mother’s glass, it reminded her of cough syrup. 

Charlie downs his in three gulps. He immediately reaches for the bottle again to pour more. She shifts uncomfortably in her seat. The wine touches her lips, and she wrinkles her nose at the potent scent and sets the glass on the edge of the table. Nothing’s changed, apparently. Still smells and tastes terrible.

Her father gestures with his empty glass. “Drink up, Bells.”

“You know I don’t like alcohol, Dad.” She smiles nervously. “Can’t I just have some water?” 

He tilts his head and frowns. “You say that like I’m giving you a choice.”

She stiffens as he meanders over. His rough fingers brush her jaw, and he exchanges his near-empty glass for hers. Wine sloshes perilously close to the rim as he bends down. 

“C’mon, baby.” He rests the cold glass on her bottom lip and nudges. “A few more sips.”

She doesn’t want a few more sips. She doesn’t want _any_ sips. It tastes bad and often gives her a strange, light-headed feeling. But a stark image of Charlie’s loaded rifle flickers through her head, and she reluctantly opens her mouth. 

At this point, it’s probably just best to do what he wants, right? 

“Good,” he sighs, cradling the back of her head. She swallows meekly, avoiding his gaze. “That’s a good girl.”

Bella winces and squeezes her eyes shut. The sour taste makes her want to gag. He doesn’t pull the glass away until she’s managed to drink a little more than half, and with a pleased smile, he brings it to his own lips and downs the rest. The sight fills her with unease. 

For the second time, she wonders if Charlie’s developed a bit of a drinking habit since she last saw him. The fridge is stocked with half a dozen bottles of wine and two six-packs, and yesterday she noticed a bottle of whiskey and a bottle of scotch in the cabinet above the stove. All opened and in varying states of use. 

“Alright.” Charlie smacks his chest and lets out a low belch. He gestures at the table. “Clean this up for me, Bells.”

She slowly climbs to her feet, watching him out of the corner of her eye. He doesn’t sit down again or make a move for the living room. He simply stands there, hands braced on the countertop behind him, and offers her a bland smile. 

Not sure what else to do, she gathers the dirty dishes and silverware, stacking them in a neat pile. At the sink, she dumps the load in the basin and sets to hand-washing each one, determined to ignore her father. 

“Can’t believe it’s Christmas already,” he says with a sigh. “The years go by too fast.”

She hums noncommittally, scrubbing a plate. 

“Been so long since I had someone else here to celebrate it.” He taps his fingers on the granite. 

Bella quietly stacks the clean plates in the small dish rack by the sink. She can tell it’s rarely used. On one end there’s even a cobweb. A quick glance through the drawers tells her Charlie’s keen on plasticware. 

He edges closer. “Gets kinda lonely out here sometimes.”

She trains her eyes on the spoon in her hand. That’s the cost of refusing to live anywhere but bumfuck Forks—no friends or family or neighbors for miles and miles. Just quiet forest. Open road. 

Charlie siddles up behind her. He gathers her hair over one shoulder and leans in. His breath is hot on her neck. “I’m happy you’re here, Bells.”

“Yeah,” she says in a voice not quite steady. “I am too.”

His hands slide over her hips. She shudders at the feeling and presses her lower body into the cabinets under the sink. Her thighs tremble from the strain. 

Charlie's lips touch the back of her neck. It’s a barely-there sensation, more like the ghost of a kiss. She swallows and pretends that everything’s fine. Nothing to worry about. But Charlie’s mouth moves to her throat, and he sucks hard on her skin. She flinches, but he keeps going, mouthing at the tender flesh like a man starved. He groans a little and shifts, his crotch pressed against her ass. She feels him there, feels the hard ridges of something forbidden. 

“Sweet,” he mumbles, licking up the column of her throat. “My sweet Bella.”

She makes a small sound of protest in the back of her throat. It goes unnoticed. He’s groaning, hands roving over her hips and up to her breasts. The cabinets by her knees creak and rattle as he sways into her, forward and back, his hips flush against her ass. 

“I’m—” Her voice is a whisper. Insubstantial. He doesn’t hear, or pretends not to. 

Charlie snakes a hand up her throat and nudges her jaw to the side. He kisses the corner of her mouth and strains closer, but she manages to turn just enough to avoid full contact. Unperturbed by this small rejection, his lips coast along her jaw, across her cheeks. His scruff is itchy and abrades her skin. 

Bella twists suddenly in his arms, trying to catch him by surprise, but he cups her hips and pulls her back. 

“Where do you think you’re going?” he asks gruffly, nipping at her throat. The pain is minor, but it still surprises her. She's never considered that biting might be a form of affection, and why would she? It _hurts._

“I—I want to—” She fumbles for an excuse. 

He tries again to kiss her mouth, but she squirms out of reach. 

“Get dressed,” she blurts, pulling on his fingers. “I’m—I need to—”

“You already did,” he mumbles, pawing at her breasts. The thick wool prevents him from pinching her nipples like he did earlier to get her off. 

Tears stick in the corners of her eyes. No matter how insistently she pushes and pulls, he won’t _stop._ “This sweater, it’s too—too small. I want to change.”

“Bella,” he groans, obviously exasperated. Which nearly makes her giggle with terror. He’s _exasperated_? He’s _upset_ with her? Well, that’s fine! She’s out of her mind with fear, but hey, at least she’s not exasperated. 

“I’ll—be back,” she stammers, shoving out of his hold. His arms tighten briefly, like maybe he won’t let her go, but she drives forward until they fall away. 

Gulping in air, Bella races up the stairs. She doesn’t look behind her. She doesn’t listen for sounds of pursuit. The only thought in her mind is _get away get away get away!_ She trips and stumbles on the landing, banging her shoulder into the wall. A sob catches in her throat, and she shoots into her room. 

The door swings closed, and it’s all she can do not to fall to her knees. Out. She needs a way out. It doesn’t matter that her truck’s too loud, that the nearest neighbor is two miles down the road. She’ll sprint the distance. She’ll run as far and as fast as her body will allow, as long as it means she won’t have to spend another minute, another _second_ , in this house.

“Bells?” The doorknob twists, and her heart lurches like a stalled engine. “You alright?”

She sobs again and casts wildly about her room for protection against the cold. There’s a scarf and mittens on the floor by her closet, but no winter coat. Well, that’ll have to do. She scrambles over, but the doorknob twists again, back and forth, with increasing urgency. The noise suddenly stops, and she stares at the door, terrified. Silence is worse. Silence means something’s going on she can’t see, and if she can’t _see_ , she won’t know how to— 

The knob twists again, and the lock clicks back. The door begins to open.

Bella surges to her feet and crashes into it, babbling, “Not ready, I’m not ready, Dad!” But he’s stronger—even with the weight of her entire body pressed to the door, he’s far, far stronger—and the crack widens. 

“Open up now,” Charlie grunts, and she stumbles back before the door shoves her into the wall.

Bella falls on her bed, weeping. Her shoulder aches where she banged it on the staircase, and her hips ache where he dug his fingers so deep into her skin there'll probably be bruises later. Her legs won’t support her, and so she sags on the mattress, gasping through tears. 

Charlie steps over the threshold, eyeing her curiously. The door settles against the wall, the keyhole warped where he forced it open. He slides his hands into the pockets of his jeans and stares down at her.

“That’s enough, Bella,” he says mildly, working his jaw. 

She shakes her head and sobs. This can’t be happening. Whatever _this_ is, it can’t be—it just can’t be—

“I w-want to go home,” she manages, clutching her hands tight to her chest.

“Oh, Bells. You are home.” His voice slides over her skin like a rash. 

“No—no,” she protests. “Renee—”

His face darkens. “Renee had her chance. She decided she’d rather live in some godforsaken desert on the opposite end of the country than here with me.” 

“That’s not—true—not true—” But even as she says it, she knows it’s a lie. That’s exactly what her mother did, and to this day, Renee doesn’t regret making that decision.

Charlie sighs, tilting his head back. “You know, I loved your mother. Years after she left me, I still loved her. More than anyone.” His eyes graze her face, lingering on her mouth. “But see, that’s changed.”

Heart pounding, Bella scoots across the mattress until her back hits the headboard. Charlie's mouth moves, but the words are garbled. What is he _saying_? Why can't she understand? For a long moment she's completely lost in a wave of panic. 

_I need to get out of here, I need to get away, because if I don't he's going to do something, he's going to..._ force _something, and when that happens everything will change, I'll lose my mind, I'll—_

When she resurfaces, Charlie's stopped talking. He saunters closer, his broad frame blocking out the open doorway. “Never thought I’d love someone so fiercely again.” He chuckles and runs a hand over his scruff. “But I do. And I never thought I’d love her so bad my chest hurts, either.” 

“Wh—who?” she blurts, desperate to redirect. Confusion blunts the obvious. “Who is it, Dad? Did you—did you meet someone—?”

Charlie dips his chin and gives her a look of vague disapproval. “Now, Bella, no more games, you hear?”

He lunges forward, closing the distance between them, and snags an ankle. She shrieks as he drags her across the mattress, the sheets and covers bunching under her, making it difficult to resist. Her other foot lashes out, but it’s a bad angle, and Charlie simply tightens his grip on her ankle until she squeals from the pain and settles.

“You gonna listen to me now?”

Bella shakes her head again and closes her eyes. What the hell is going _on_? She just wants to go back downstairs, bake cookies, turn on some silly Hallmark movie, and admire the Christmas tree lights. That’s all. That’s all she wants.

His hands crawl up her legs and yank on the waistband of her jeans. With a soft curse, he fumbles with the top button and flicks down the zipper. She bats wildly at his hands, digging her nails into his wrists. 

Charlie sighs heavily. “Alright, then.”

He reaches into his back pocket and brings out a pair of metal handcuffs.

“ _Dad?_ ” Her voice rises to a screech. The sight of those cuffs—used on bad guys, _criminals_ —sends her into a full-blown panic. She claws at the bedsheets, trying to get away, to break free of his iron grip. 

But Charlie simply grunts and jams a knee into her stomach. All the air leaves her in a great wheeze, and she gapes soundlessly, eyes ringed in white, as her father drags her hands to the headboard and snaps the cuffs around her wrists. He secures them to a thick wooden rod at the base of the headboard, wrists stacked one atop the other. He gives an experimental yank and hums his approval. 

“Much better.” Charlie puts his hands on his hips, looking very pleased with himself. “No more struggling, you hear?”

Bella stares up at him, trembling. Her hands lay limply above her head now, useless, and she looks away as he finishes dragging her jeans down and panties off. He leaves her socks on but tears through her sweater. The coarse ripping of heavy fabric brings tears to her eyes, and she blinks rapidly as the embroidered reindeer dissolve into a puddle of torn strips. 

Charlie maneuvers her to the middle of the bed. The mattress is old, and it creaks with their movement. She breathes through her nose, twisting fruitlessly at the cuffs. The heater hums through the floorboards, but she shivers against a sudden wave of cold, skin prickling with goosebumps. 

“Been so long,” he mutters, staring at her pert nipples. “So long since I had a woman.”

She starts to cry in earnest now, and he lets her. There’s nobody else around, after all. No one to stop him. 

Charlie unbuttons his flannel and shrugs it off. He’s not wearing anything underneath—not his usual white t-shirt—which convinces her that he’s been planning this since the early hours of the morning, before she was even awake. While he rocked in the armchair hours before sunrise, _this_ scenario played out in his mind. While she slept on, blissfully unaware, _this_ was the fantasy he lived. 

Her father's barrel-chested, skin dark with a coarse layer of hair. There are several ugly-looking scars on his ribs from attacks on the job—knife marks and bullet wounds and disease-ridden fingernails. Bella shudders. This is the body of a hardened man, one who knows precisely how to deal with unwilling prisoners. 

He drops heavily on top of her with no warning, bracing his arms on the mattress, and sets to licking her nipples in a wild, desperate frenzy. They go hard and pebbled at the sandpaper feel of his tongue. Revolted, she squeezes her thighs together, pushing against him. But Charlie pries them apart with his knee and rubs his thigh between her legs. Arousal dampens his jeans, and he ducks his head to watch as she gradually soaks the denim. 

“Easier than I thought,” he mutters, surprised. He sucks on a nipple, cheeks hollowing as he devours her breasts. “Must’ve been goin’ out of your mind, huh, Bells? Don't worry. Virgins are always desperate.”

She has no idea what he’s talking about. The friction between her legs is growing unbearable, and it's hard to think past the immediate pleasure. She hates herself for it too, for feeling "good" even as she knows it's just her body's natural response. Any minute now she’s going to let go, and the thought of what he’ll do in response terrifies her. 

He nuzzles her breasts, leaving sloppy wet kisses behind, and makes his way over her ribs and down to her stomach. He nibbles at her pointed hip bones, scraping them with his teeth. His fingers dip between her legs and stroke her slit. Bella whines and bucks, and he lets out a low laugh. 

“Can’t hide it from your daddy.” He pushes in, parting her folds. “Daddy always knows what his little girl needs.”

She huffs, cringing into the mattress. Her breasts are sore from his attentions, and there’s a throbbing ache between her legs that repulses her. _Stop,_ she tells herself. _You don't want this,_ stop _!_ Charlie shuffles off his jeans and boxers, revealing meaty thighs and a red, fully erect penis. It’s nearly as long as her forearm and horrifyingly thick. 

_Please don’t,_ she thinks weakly, staring at the ceiling. _Please don’t let him stick it in me._

Her father settles between her thighs, ignoring the tears coursing down her cheeks. He pushes them wider and cups her hips. She tries one last time to tear the cuffs from where they’re linked to the headboard, but it’s like trying to drag an immobile train down the tracks. The mattress creaks, but the frame itself doesn’t move an inch. 

“Bells.”

She breathes through her nose. It’s Christmas Eve. Soon they’re going to cook a ham, and she’ll bake cookies while he guzzles beer and laughs at some outrageous holiday movie. _Elf,_ maybe. Will Ferrell kills every time with that _you sit on a throne of lies!_ scene. 

“Bells, look at me.”

 _No._ Her mind screams it, every bone in her body screams it, and a tiny little voice in the back of her head wonders if she’ll go insane. When he touches her, when he— _forces_ himself on her—will she lose her mind? Will her thoughts scatter and refuse to piece themselves back together?

Charlie gently holds her jaw and pushes her head back until she has no choice. His eyes are dark, face tense and focused. His chest heaves with heavy, panting breaths. He’s flushed—excited. Bella firms her lips together until they’re nothing but a thin white line.

“Bella.” He sighs her name, eyelids falling to half-mast. “Look at you.” 

She whimpers when his index finger nudges her bottom lip. With a little more coaxing, he manages to slip it into her mouth. 

“Suck, honey.” 

She does and tastes oil and salt from the chips and pickle he ate at lunch. Thankful they’re not covered in dirt, like they usually are after a shift, she watches his face as her lips and tongue move over his finger. His mouth is open, eyes riveted to the small O of her lips. 

"Oh, Bella. My Bella." His hips sway forward, and the head of his penis glides through her folds. He grasps the base and slaps her cunt with it, coating his shaft with her arousal. She jerks, eyes widening, but Charlie shushes her and gently strokes her hair. 

“You know,” he says conversationally, “I haven’t been with a woman in five years. No one appealed to me.” 

Quiet now, Bella’s eyes shift to the side. The suckling isn't so bad. He could make her blow him, after all. Over her shoulder, she catches steady motion. It’s still snowing—snowflakes fall so fast that it's a straight sheet of white beyond the window. 

He hisses and rolls his hips, sinking the tip of his cock inside her pussy. When he tilts his head back on a groan, the muscles in his neck stand out in stark, veined lines. “But then you walk through my door, and suddenly all I can think about is fucking.” He laughs huskily and tenderly kneads her breast. “Like I’m sixteen again.”

She mumbles _dad_ around his finger, but it’s garbled and too low. His hand slides from her breast to her stomach. He spends a long time stroking the skin there, as if marveling at the tautness. He caresses her hips next, looking thoughtful. 

“Such a small belly,” he muses. “But you have nice hips. Wide like your mother's.” 

Something unnameable roils in her gut. She chokes around his finger, whining and twisting. Reluctantly, he withdraws his hand. 

She sucks in a huge breath and whispers, “Please don’t.”

“Oh no, no,” he clucks, moving his hands up and down her sides, pausing on her ribs. “Look, your skin’s getting all red.”

Sure enough, when Bella arches her neck to glance behind her, she sees bright red rings encircling both wrists. Her struggling hasn’t torn skin or drawn blood—not yet. 

Charlie's hand dips between her legs and strokes her slit again, teasing her with two fingers this time. Her eyes roll and she cries out, sinking her hips into the mattress, desperate to avoid his touch. He brings a finger glistening with her arousal to his mouth and licks. "Ah, shit. You made it so sweet for me, Bells.”

 _No, no, no._ She tosses her head wildly back and forth, senseless with fear. “Ch—Charlie,” she gasps, “please d-don’t touch me, I—this— _please_ —“

His lips firm into an unforgiving line. “You’ll call me Daddy when I have you flat on your back like this, understand?” 

A sob bursts free, but she nods anyway. He grips his cock in a hairy fist. Stroking leisurely, he watches as she cries and thrashes. His eyes catch on her jiggling breasts, then dip to the wet hole between her legs. He licks his lips, chest heaving. The tip of his cock glistens as pre-cum dribbles out. 

The handcuffs dig into her wrists, but she no longer cares. The pain is a welcome distraction. 

Charlie pumps up and down his length, shuddering every time their eyes catch and hold, then shifts closer. Probing her folds with the head of his cock, he sinks in a few inches, gritting his teeth and watching avidly like he would a sports game.

“Steady, Bells. Daddy doesn’t want to hurt you.”

Her breath catches in surprise, and she muffles another cry when his cock sinks deeper. What he just said--it sounds like a threat. Maybe he doesn’t mean it like one, but she senses a dark undercurrent that promises punishment should she keep resisting. 

_Daddy doesn’t want to hurt you, but he will if you fight._

All at once, Charlie sinks all the way home, plunging so deep a faint outline appears in her taut stomach. He releases a full-throated groan that echoes in the quiet bedroom. 

“Can’t believe it,” he pants, eyes glazed. She’s not sure if he realizes he’s speaking aloud. “All snug inside my daughter’s pussy. You been waiting for me, haven't you? Been waiting for Daddy to take you.”

Bella stares at the ceiling, lips trembling. It’s so strange having a foreign _thing_ inside her. A thing that’s big and warm, throbbing, stretching her inner walls uncomfortably. She’s too full—the sensation makes her ache in a place she didn't know was there. 

“ _Fuck._ ” Charlie moves over her until their hips are flush. His cock pulses, and she feels it everywhere. In her chest and stomach, behind her eyes, between her legs. _He’s_ everywhere. He braces his forearms beside her head, caging her in. She has no choice but to meet his eyes. 

“You been saving this virgin pussy for your daddy, Bells? Waiting for me to stuff you full?” 

She sniffles and doesn’t speak. He’s unbothered and sets to kissing and sucking on her neck. She winces each time his teeth graze her skin—he’s leaving a trail of bruises as he dips low, mouthing at her nipples again. Suddenly, a memory rises out of the black depths of her mind: sunrise in Phoenix, a hot breakfast at the kitchen table, Renee stretching the kinks out of her neck and muttering, "Your father loved to use _his_ teeth, too."

Charlie shifts back and withdraws a little, dragging his cock along her walls. Bella’s mouth opens soundlessly. He smiles, pleased by her reaction, and hesitates, the head still buried in her warmth. 

“Feels nice, huh?” He kisses the corner of her mouth, soft and tender. “God, Bells, it’s been a while. I can’t tell you how this feels for me.”

He thrusts back in with a savage twist of his lips, and her body jolts at the impact. “ _Oh!_ ” 

“Little wider,” he growls, grasping the back of one knee and pulling it over his hip. 

She digs her heel into the small of his back, swallowing down a moan. This new angle feels incredible, and she _hates_ it. She hates it so much. What they’re doing— It’s disgusting— _vile_. But as Charlie sets a lazy pace, thrusting with long, slow strokes, she finds herself quickly approaching orgasm. 

Her head tips back, and she gazes upside-down at her cuffed hands. The bed springs squeak quietly, and from outside comes the susurrating murmur of fresh snowfall. She gasps when Charlie’s finger touches her clit—way, _way_ too sensitive. But that must be what he wants because he starts to rub the small nub in tight, practiced circles. 

“ _O-oh—_ ” she stammers, fighting the pressure building in her lower stomach. “Oh no— _no_ —”

Charlie presses his forehead to the sheets beside her head and strokes deep inside her. Each thrust sets her nerves on fire, and she grunts every time he buries himself. The feeling isn’t _bad,_ exactly—there’s just a lot of pressure, a lot of _him_ touching all of _her_. Sweat rolls down the side of his neck, and she hisses through her teeth at a particularly rough thrust. 

“There we go,” he growls, pumping his hips. She feels the heavy weight of his balls smacking her pussy--again, again, again--and each wet impact forces her closer to implosion. The room echoes with it. “Keep those legs open, Bells. Keep that pussy wet.”

She cries soundlessly, staring at the ceiling like she might somehow break through it, disappear into the white void of the blizzard. For a minute, or maybe two or three, she fades away, lost in memories of Christmases past. She remembers: opening prettily wrapped presents at seven in the morning, grinning into the camera her mother inexpertly operated. She remembers: playing board games with family and friends while they waited for dinner. She remembers: sitting by the crackling (fake) fireplace, reading a cute romance novel. 

Charlie moans, interrupting these reveries, and slides his big arms beneath her thighs. He yanks her legs up, up, nearly to her ears, and loops them over his shoulders. All the while he pumps, a feverish glow in his eyes, jaw slack, lips red and wet. Contorted and pinned, Bella whines through her teeth as Charlie hammers into her, rough and reckless now with a feral sort of energy she’s never seen in him. 

“Fuck, baby,” he snarls, kissing and licking the seam of her mouth, twining his tongue with hers. “Gonna cum inside you. Cum inside my little girl.”

With a final thrust that leaves trails of fire in its wake, Charlie throws his head back and bellows his release. Her own orgasm slams into her a second later, and she screams. Her vocal cords ripple at the intensity. Toes curling, hands bent into fists above her head, she cums on her father’s cock in a breathless, mind-numbing gush. 

Bella zones out again. Her arms go slack, and somewhere deep inside her head she imagines sitting in the green-patterned armchair in Renee’s living room in Phoenix, the one she got for a bargain at a last-minute estate sale. She has a book open in her lap, legs curled beneath her on the cushion, a glass of chocolate milk close at hand on the end table. Her mother laughs at something, chattering a mile a minute into the phone. Michael Buble’s latest Christmas album plays at a low volume on the flat screen. 

But like all fantasies, it inevitably fades. 

When she finally comes to, Charlie’s carefully maneuvering her onto her stomach. His hands stroke her flushed skin, gentle and caressing. The slim chain between the handcuffs tinkles, and her wrists protest at the strange angle, but he manages to get her flat again. 

“Need to keep going,” he mumbles under his breath, kissing her backside. 

Bella exhales a tortured, “ _No_ ,” but it’s little more than a whisper. 

Charlie pushes on the backs of her knees until they’re bunched up beneath her, and then he's mounting her from behind. The swollen tip of his cock slides through the mixed juices dribbling from her pussy lips, and he guides himself back inside with ease, sighing loudly. 

“That’s it,” he declares, thrusting twice—hard. “Right there, that’s it. _Fuck._ ”

“ _No_ ,” she repeats, louder this time. She shakes with the force of his thrusts, each one a brutal snap of his hips, and still, he doesn’t hear. She moans into the mattress, terrified that this will never end. This is her forever now—pinned down like an animal and fucked like a whore. On and on and on. Spread open and used as he wills it. 

Charlie runs his tongue down the curve of her spine, groaning and spitting curses under his breath. “When Renee visits—we’ll tell her it was just—just some boy.” 

_What?_ Bella pushes herself up the mattress, wiggling and bucking in the hopes of putting some distance between them, but of course he follows, smacking her ass with the flat of his palm. She screams into the covers. 

Charlie seems to like that. There’s a smile in his voice when he says, “You listen to Daddy now. Ain’t gotta worry about a thing, baby.”

He spanks her again, once on each cheek, then grips her ass, digging his fingers into the rounded flesh to hold her still. Charlie groans and works his hips faster, driving her up against the headboard. She squeals, and he laughs again. 

“We’ll tell Renee,” he says gutterly, draping himself across her back. “We’ll tell her some strange boy from out of town put a baby in you. We’ll tell her you barely remember a thing from that night. Not his name, not what he looked like—" Charlie grunts and pinches a reddened nipple. "—not how hard he fucked you."

Realization strikes, and this time Bella can’t stifle her cry of despair. _Put a baby in you._ No. She’s seventeen, she has to finish high school, get a job, go to college, travel, she has to—

“ _No—no—!_ ”

She doesn’t realize she’s screaming it until Charlie bites the back of her neck. It’s vicious, and it _hurts_ , and she keeps screaming because this is just a nightmare, that’s all, and any second now she’ll wake up and it’ll be Christmas Day, and there’ll be snow on the ground and food in the oven, not her father’s cock rammed into her pussy again and again and—

She twists and thrashes, even as pain flares in her bound wrists and bent knees. “ _No! No—no—no—_ ”

Charlie bites her again, harder and somehow even deeper, and she goes silent all at once, stunned by the pain. It’s _blinding._ It’s all-consuming. It’s—

“Don’t matter,” he rumbles, rubbing furiously at her oversensitive clit. “Scream all you like, baby. Nobody’s around to hear it. Ain’t nobody gonna interrupt.” 

He yanks her hips up high and holds them there until, with a hoarse cry, he dumps another load of cum inside her. His body keeps moving, burying his hot seed as deep as his cock can penetrate. She feels it settle, and even more of it streaks the insides of her thighs in sticky white lines. Moaning like an injured animal, too tired to scream, Bella holds herself still and waits for her own shaking orgasm to pass. 

Charlie pulls out, flicking his cock so ropes of cum dribble all over her ass. He sticks a blunt finger between her legs and rubs their combined cream on her pussy lips before sucking it into his mouth. She collapses, exhausted. 

“Mm,” he says, eyes sliding closed. “Damn. I missed the taste of good pussy.”

Bella whimpers but doesn’t try to move. It’s an awkward angle with the handcuffs in place, but all the fight has left her now that he’s finished, now that it's done. She senses him edging over her again, and a second later he’s wrapping his arms around her middle, cooing reassurances into her ear. His scruff rubs against her neck, irritating the already bruised skin. 

“Don’t have to worry,” he whispers, kissing a tender spot on her jaw. His cock bobs between her spread-open thighs, flaccid now but still pulsing. “By the time Renee catches on, you’ll be past eighteen and we’ll be three kids deep.”

She doesn’t answer. Her cheek is pressed to the rumpled bedsheets, and her ass is still in the air, Charlie’s meaty thighs clenched around her hips. She gazes out of her bedroom window as he murmurs soothingly and strokes her sides, kissing and sighing into her sweaty skin. It’s still snowing. 

A full-scale blizzard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **merry christmas (and happy holidays) ya filthy animals**
> 
> OTHER TWILIGHT WORKS
> 
> [The Violet Hour](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25881133) [oneshot, Bella/Edward]
> 
> [A Blip Amidst Infinite Moments](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24207355) [complete, Bella/Jane]

**Author's Note:**

> ~~say hi! (or come yell at me)~~  
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/naboojakku)  
> [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/naboojakku/?hl=en)


End file.
